Sir, like a wilting flower, sits by a static windowsill, watching
passerby without notice-though, with large, fond hands; fond of
touch, and of a violent elegance. Boy,
bring me a drink,
but in his eyes, there is a sea without shore, a knowing of
salvation lost.

Speckled hands, an inversion of his, with valleys where mountains
loom, rivers where roads start and then end.

Boy, akin to fawn: strong and sharp, but blunt in his tastes and
therefore in possession of feckless hands. Glass is dropped,
and-

Pleasure is violent as boy's delicate features flare
charismatically, a lion biding its time in the face of man, a
tide.

Inevitable.

As it crashes, salt washes away all trace of
blood-stasis.

"Father, you are no sir."

And he is no boy; no longer.

Bottle fixed in a set of stoic hands-in the line of a pair of
fatalistic eyes-the ocean does not tear, for the man, with a
steady beating heart, does not waver this time.